Poet for Hire

Full circle, still time to donate.

Never had the desire

to pursue fundraising.

Always have hated not having,

hate the idea of chasing

the $$ even more.

“Give me some $$ son,

give me some funds,”

Dislike it for any type of project.

It’s hard to get people to buy-in.

So I thought. But that’s what writing is about.

Do you buy my ideas?

Would you fund them, enjoy

them as much as the theater?

Poet for hire-

30 poems in 30 days

fucken set fire to my ass.

Sorry to be crass, this challenge

took me to class. Oops, I mean to school,

had to use all my tools:

Thank you-poem,

How to-poem,

Found-poem,

Personalized-poem,

This day in history-poem

Inspired by what I heard, witnessed, felt-poem

Revised some whack ass lines that were going nowhere- poem

I’m angry, saddened and moved by the injustices of the world- poem.

No cento poem, though.

Was inspired by Robert Frost, May Swenson,

Kay Ryan’s rhyme schemes and all the folks

of the 30/30 July team.

Not gonna lie, writing a poem a day

was rough, gave me flabby brains

not talking about bad head

just a good challenge of

my commitment, discipline

dislikes and cleverness. Picture a

confused messed at my desk.

Now I feel like a heroine

there wasn’t any dragon slaying,

but I’m about a lil bragging,

faced up “writer’s block”

know what I’m saying.

30 poems, correction, 

this confession is 31.

Give yourself a pat on the back,

you poetry aficionado

your “likes, shares and reposts” estan sellados

that means sealed, forever in this web.

31! 

Just call me Baskin Robin

basking in my variations

stealing inspiration from thin air.

So now I’m Robin Hood?

I don’t want bad karma

that’s why I share with you,

Tupelo Press, other writers,

friends, homies and lovers

only fair- you give my work air,

help it breath, keep it alive.

…For Everything

Got me feeling like Pele

Suddenly the words come easy.

This doesn’t have the feeling of farewell.

I think they’ve gotten familiar,

found ease in your visits-

you make them feel refreshed.

The daily routine of appearing

early with the birds outside

my window at their most expressive,

wore on them, made them shy,

to be so rushed-baby birds

pushed into flight. So used to being prodded,

resized. Finally settled

into with this temporary exercise.

It’s the knowing that helps,

knowing you’re there with your

eyes peered at the screen

allowing them to fall into you; all 30.

Your readings

always make it easy. So much ADD

so much information to digest

it’s a stretch for a poem to make the cut. 

You have me feeling like a pretty girl

on her prom night, ready for you. Excited,

nervous, wanted; this means everything

and will mean nothing. But I know that I deserve

this. My fingers, twisted branches

grip the pen, twist words for you. I reserved

my last one a thank you for everything, reposting,

sharing, commenting, donating, liking and disliking,

dressing your gallery windows with it, with you

I muddled through. 

Note: this is the 30th of the 30 poems in 30 days project. Can't thank you enough! 

Tupelo thanks you for all your donations,  http://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/

Wrong Side

I can be sweet

as a prickly pear

cuter than a koala

bear, at my prickliest

a porcupine. Not a fine

feature, associated

with such creature whose

line you cross leaves you

with a pine or two

in your face.

Got work to do,

undo the threads

I hold like breath

and threaten

our closeness.

Bust open my closed

mess, destiny, cradle

you in my arms my child. 


Note: 2 more days left of my "write a poem a day" journey. Please donate and support independent, non-profit  http://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/

Sunday Ride

Load the bikes up on the rack

stuff snacks, sunscreen in a backpack

charge the phone for some ridding tunes

slather on sunscreen, check the time…still on track.

If it’s a long, pretty, breezy, ride you seek

drive on down to Ballona Creek

one of the nicest bike paths we got in town

away from smelly autos, ride along canals to the sea.

Loads of joggers, pedestrians enjoying the scenic route

 “on your left, on your left” many times you’ll need to shout

the coastal breeze in your face as you head to  the ocean

sweating, smiling, sun-shining, what LA Sundays should be  about.

 Note: This is one of the nicest bike paths in LA, whoever says there is nothing to do in LA better Google something!  Enjoy your city's outdoor pleasure, no $$ needed. Donate the $$ you save to a worthy cause like http://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/

Recover

There will always be women

I say this with pride even though

It is fatal to be a man or a woman

pure and simple; activate others

activate you. Stop looking

how to climb up

look ahead to get ahead,

be a womanly

man or manly woman.

Make it a habit- living, move

off my hunches

move so fast off my haunches

I discharge fumes.

Habit?

How many days must I do it

to finally have it?

Note: This is poem #27 of 31, getting it done! Arte es vida, support independent publishing, support tupelo press http://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/

The Rock

The things

We

DO

for a lil’

thing. Precious.

Incandescent.

Diamonds. A girl’s best friend!

‘Cause they?

Kill people, reap

lands, the commoner

picks it, but not worthy

NOT

            WORTHY

of such material possessions

that started in their hands

                                    Dug Up

from the Earth. Thousands

at a time so common

so pricey, what a conflict.

Commoners,

precious little ones,

delicate fingers slashed, eyes

burning, drained, lungs

congested, infected with cut-dust

working poverty rates

for the 4 Cs,

color, cut, clarity, carat.

Young girl, princess fantasy

crusted in your eyes,

“the rock” black, pink,

Canary yellow illusion

disguised as ever lasting love.

Crystalized symbol

of manhood, more $$$$ is better,

symbol of vows-

manufactured, like a princess.


Note: 5 days left in my verbal-run please donate and give some funds
to http://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/

American Dreaming

 





 

When I feel like quitting

I feel my pulse, her blood

occupies my veins. She who’s

life started in a shack, her mama died

when she was young. Dad forever on one.

Became a sister-mom too, young.

She could barely read. Too, poor

to afford books, schoolmates too, mean

to share theirs, she couldn’t read. Sister-mom

torteando pound after pound of masa

for all the sibling mouth’s to feed, no time to read.

American dreams don’t depend on a page

they can travel by tongue, ignited

her, painted a little bit of red and white

atop her chronic blues. Single mom

expatriate in a land that welcomed

her with open arms into its factories

and production plants. Planted on her feet

she worked double shifts and sprouted blackberry

plump veins on the back of her legs. Hung a key

around my older sister-mom’s neck, 

we walked to school, books in our

hands feeling the weight of hope on our backs. 

When I feel like quitting I hear the echoes

of her voice “Even when I’m gone,

I’ll never leave you alone” writing

my fate across an illuminated screen never

felt so easy.

Note: if you like what you read and you know it, donate here http://tupelopress.wordpress.com/3030-project/ 
I thank you, Tupelo thank's you, poetry thanks you!